The Case of the Dancing Bear
by couldbedangerous-SH
Summary: A tricky and dangerous case for the world's only consulting detective, the key for which is held by the most unlikely of people.


The Case of the Dancing Bear

Part 1 – Chapter One – An Unexpected Arrival

Inspector Lestrade heard the hammering at his front door, and swore under his breath. He hadn't got back home until gone three in the morning after ploughing through the Everest of paper work that that last case had afforded him. Sergeant Donovan knew that he wasn't working today, so who the hell was causing that racket at this God forsaken time? He looked at the clock on his phone. Five past two in the afternoon. Maybe he should get up, if only to flash his ID badge and scare the bastard off.

As he struggled out of bed, he caught sight of himself in the wardrobe mirror. God, he looked awful. Unshaven, with dark bags under his eyes and matted, unkempt hair.

"The picture perfect detective inspector," he muttered with a dark humour, as he pulled on his dressing gown. With the tatty garment on, he completed the 'dossing hobo' look that was so popular with the numerous down-and-outs that populated the city's darkest corners.

As he padded down the stairs, he suddenly wondered whether it was that bloody Sherlock who was raising Cain out of the front door. Lestrade had no doubt that Sherlock would know where he lived, but if it was the world's only consulting detective, Lestrade would be certain to tell him where to stick it. Although he suspected that the socially inept Sherlock would understand.

It took Lestrade a minute to find his keys – in the fridge with his wallet and a half pint of dubious milk for company. He left the wallet where it was; at least he actually knew where it was now, and took the keys to the front door.

On the step he discovered a stern looking woman, with a face that a crow would have been proud of, and a small battered suitcase by her feet. Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed his mouth again. Thankfully, the woman seemed to have already got a script worked out.

"Are you Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade?"

"Yes." One syllable answers were all his still sleep-addled brain could handle.

"I am Ms Smith. I work for Social Services." She looked the dishevelled man up and down in obvious disapproval.

"Social Services?"

"Yes; Children's Social Services to be exact."

"But I don't have any children." Lestrade was painfully confused now, he just wanted this bird-like woman to go away so that he could go back to sleep.

"You may not sir, but your brother does."

His brother did indeed have a daughter, Lestrade recalled, but what did that have to do with him? He tried to think of her name, but it escaped him.

"And what has that got to do with me? I haven't spoken to my brother or his family for over ten years."

"It turns out sir, that you are the girl's next of kin."

_Oh God,_ thought Lestrade,_ she's dead and they need someone to identify the body. I haven't seen her since she was what, three?_

Ms Smith had turned away from him, and shouted towards the road.

"Come along girl!"

Lestrade watched, with a mixture of confusion and growing trepidation, as a teenage girl appeared from around the corner of the street.

"Hi Uncle," she said nervously, "long time no see, and all that." Still reeling from the sight, Lestrade realised that the Smith woman was pressing a pen and paper into his hands.

"If you'll just sign there sir." He did so, as if in a dream.

"Congratulations sir, you are now your niece's legal guardian, until the day she turns twenty one. We'll send you copies of all the paperwork. Good afternoon."

And with that, she was gone, leaving Lestrade and the girl sizing each other up. He could most definitely feel a headache coming on.

"I don't quite understand what just happened." The girl gave him a slight, crooked smile.

"You just fell for the most devious trick in her book." Her accent was northern, Lestrade noted, from Yorkshire maybe.

"You can't remember my name, can you?" He shook his head dumbly. At that moment, a car's engine started up, and he heard it pull away.

"She's gone now, so if you want me to leave, I will do." Her voice was solemn and quiet. It occurred to Lestrade that it wasn't the first time she had said such a thing.

"No, come in." She looked up at him with surprise in her eyes. He picked up the suitcase, feeling how light it was, and stepped back to allow her into the house.

"I'm Beatrix by the way," she said as she entered. "Bea for short." _Of course,_ thought Lestrade, as he shut the door. _That was it._

She followed him into the kitchen, where he put the case down.

"That's a very fetching dressing gown." Lestrade caught the note of sarcasm in her voice. He turned around, feeling slightly embarrassed. Then, he caught sight of the walking stick that the girl was leaning on. It caught him so off guard that he couldn't find anything to say. Beatrix shrugged.

"I had an accident with a kitchen knife. It's not really as bad as you're imagining."

Lestrade dragged his gaze back up to her face. He realised that he was being incredibly rude.

"Right, well, erm, I need to get dressed. Could you make some coffee? When I come back down, we can talk about what's going to happen." She nodded.

Lestrade trudged back up the stairs to take a shower and hopefully clear his head. What on earth had his idiotic younger brother done now? It wasn't until he was standing under the jet of water that he realised that he had just allowed a random stranger into his house. How was he to know that she really was his brother's daughter? She and that woman could be pulling some sort of con. What if he walked down stairs to find they'd taken everything? He listened hard for any tell-tale sounds that would give away a robbery taking place.

"A fine police man you are," he grumbled to himself as he got dry. Despite the imminent danger of being robbed however, he shaved ad got dressed in a more respectable manner. He also picked up his phone, but loathe anyone who rang him now.

Beatrix was in the kitchen, starring out of the window. There were two mugs of black coffee on the counter.

"Thanks. Sorry about that." She visibly jumped, apparently having not heard him enter. When she saw it was him, she relaxed slightly, and gave him another of her crooked smiles.

"It's fine, although your milk's off. And this was in your fridge." She tossed him his wallet. Lestrade picked up the coffee. The smell had made him feel more alert already. He studied the girl standing across the room from him.

She was thin and wiry, with the light blue darting eyes of a hunted animal, and short, scruffily cut dark brown hair. He recognised the demeanour of a street kid instantly – ready for flight, or to fight, at any moment. However, despite the sunken cheeks and general nervous feel, she was a pretty girl. He found himself wondering whether, if this little scrap of humanity had been pulled from the Thames, or found in a backstreet, he would have recognised her as his flesh and blood. No, probably not, as there was none of her father in her, not visibly at any rate. That was probably for the best.

Her clothes were tatty too – worn black skinny jeans that showed how thin her legs were, a tee-shirt and a hoodie that was several sizes too big for her. She leant heavily on her walking stick; stark in contrast to how John Watson had stood with his when he still had one. Beatrix's injury was clearly not phycosimatic.

"You said you had an accident. What kind of accident?" She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, and the part of Lestrade that was constantly in detective mode instinctively knew that he would not be getting the truth.

"I ran into a kitchen knife thirteen times. Stupid, I know, but I just couldn't stop myself." She looked down and away, and Lestrade didn't press her for further details.

He had a slightly more prominent problem to deal with. He had nowhere for her to sleep. The spare room was full of junk and old case files, but no bed. He didn't even own a sofa, just a pair of chairs. After all, who needed a sofa when they lived alone?

He was pulled out of his contemplations by the ringing of his phone. He answered it angrily.

"Someone had better be dead."

"You're going to have to come in, sir." It was Sergeant Sally Donovan.

"But I'm not working today."

"Orders from on high, sir. They've sent a car." He ended the call. Today was just getting better and better. He realised that Bea was watching him.

"I'm going to have to go into work."

"At Scotland Yard?" He was slightly taken aback. Another crooked smile, complemented by slightly guilty eyes. "I had a look at your file. I thought it might be a good idea to know who you were before I landed on your doorstep."

"How long have you known that you were coming here?"

"Since about this time yesterday."


End file.
